webAppInput

SceneIdQuery

myProfile

scene

query SceneIdQuery(
  $id: ID!
  $webAppInput: WebAppInput
) {
  myProfile(webAppInput: $webAppInput) {
    ...MyProfile_myProfile
    id
  }
  scene(id: $id) {
    ...Scene_scene
    ...SceneMedias_scene_16LRdq
    id
    order
    rating
    title
    seoTitle
    seoDescription
    isPublished
    isScheduled
    publishedAt
    content
    embeddedMedia {
      mediaId
      state
    }
    story {
      ...Story_story
      id
      isMine
      commentsAccess
    }
    prevScene {
      id
    }
    nextScene {
      id
    }
  }
}

fragment JobInfo_job on AiGenerationJob {
  id
  type
  status
  currentStage
  attemptCount
  maxAttempts
  lastErrorCode
  scheduledAt
}

fragment MediaStatusFields_media on Media {
  id
  status
  generationError
  activeGenerationJob {
    ...JobInfo_job
    currentStage
    id
  }
}

fragment MyProfile_myProfile on User {
  id
  name
  email
  isAdmin
  hasEverPaid
  isEmailConfirmed
  isEmailNotificationEnabled
  isTelegramNotificationEnabled
  isTempPassword
  avatar
  cover
  about
  contacts
  support
  telegramId
  vkId
  availableLimits
  frozenLimits
  urlSlug
  topUpPackages {
    id
    price
    currency
    toBalanceLimits
    bonusLimits
    totalCreditedLimits
    USD
  }
  availablePaymentProviders
  aiGenerationCosts {
    plan {
      size
      cost
    }
    characterSuggest
    ideaExpand
    sceneWrite {
      length
      cost
    }
    mediaGenerate
    animate {
      baseCost
      audioSurcharge
    }
  }
  activeGenerationJobs {
    id
    type
    status
    limitCost
    story {
      id
      authorTitle
    }
  }
}

fragment SceneMedias_scene_16LRdq on Scene {
  id
  story {
    id
  }
  mediaAttachments(viewMode: READ) {
    id
    media {
      ...MediaStatusFields_media
      id
      type
      origin
      previewSrc
      mediaSrc512: mediaSrc(size: 512)
      mediaSrc1024: mediaSrc(size: 1024)
      videoPosterSrc(size: 1024)
      userPrompt
      finalPrompt
      rawPrompt
      mediaAttachments {
        id
        story {
          id
        }
        scene {
          id
        }
        character {
          id
        }
      }
      embeddedInScenes {
        id
      }
    }
  }
  embeddedMedia {
    mediaId
    state
  }
  sceneCharacterStates {
    id
    character {
      id
      name
    }
  }
}

fragment Scene_scene on Scene {
  id
  order
  displayOrder
  title
  rating
  isPublished
  isScheduled
  publishedAt
  minWaitersToPublish
  waitersCount
  readCount
  content
  story {
    id
    isMine
  }
}

fragment Story_story on Story {
  id
  title
  createdAt
  publicDescription
  type
  size
  narrativeType
  rating
  hasCharacters
  status
  isPublished
  isMine
  publishedAt
  likesCount
  favoritesCount
  displayDirection
  plotGenres
  settingGenres
  moods
  tropes
  displayContentWarnings
  sceneAtmospheres
  publishedStats {
    scenesCount
    wordsCount
  }
  author {
    id
    name
    urlSlug
    avatar
  }
  characters {
    id
    name
  }
  fandoms {
    id
    urlSlug
    translation {
      canonicalName
      id
    }
  }
  myState {
    isLiked
    isFavorited
    isWaiting
    id
  }
  lastPublishedScene {
    id
  }
}


Hours had passed since the laboratory incident, and the city below had descended into a relentless, cold downpour that did little to wash away the grime of Gotham. The sterile, fluorescent tension of the secret facility felt like a lifetime ago, replaced now by the rhythmic, unforgiving drumming of rain against the concrete of the GCPD rooftop. I stood on the very precipice, the soles of my boots gripping the edge of the parapet as the wind lashed at my cape. The cityscape was a blurred smear of neon amber and bruised violet, shimmering through the vertical sheets of water. Below, the police cruisers looked like toys, their light bars cycling in silent, rhythmic pulses. My cowl offered little protection against the biting chill, and the damp air seemed to seep through the tactical weave of the suit, reminding me that I was made of flesh, even if the city demanded I be made of something else.

I heard the metallic groaning of the heavy rooftop door before I saw him. The hinges shrieked, a sharp discordance against the low, heavy hum of the metropolis. Harvey Bullock stepped out, his trench coat already sodden and clinging to his frame like a wet shroud. He looked tired. It was a marrow-deep exhaustion, the kind that came from years of witnessing the slow rot of a system he was trying to patch with duct tape. He adjusted the brim of his hat, squinting against the rain, and stopped a safe, cynical distance behind me. The scent of his cheap, burnt coffee merged with the ozone of the storm.

"You know, I thought the weather might keep even the local boogeyman inside for a night," Harvey said, his voice gravelly and thick with annoyance. He shuffled forward, his heavy footsteps audible even over the rain. He didn't look at me directly; he stared out at the jagged skyline as if waiting for it to crumble. "Instead, here you are, brooding on the edge like some kind of gargoyle that lost its way."

I didn't turn. I watched a distant fire escape glint with refracted electricity. The city felt wrong tonight. The frequency of the sightings, the erratic nature of the reports—they pointed to something escalating, something that didn't fit the typical profile of a street-level thug or a Gotham syndicate. I needed information, and Bullock was currently the only conduit to the data I required.

"I am not here to entertain your commentary on my habits, Harvey," I said, my voice modulated, low, and stripped of inflection. The sound was flat, swallowed by the downpour. "The reports from the dockside warehouses. The unauthorized entry at the government facility earlier today. I need the specific coordinates and the incident logs."

Harvey let out a sharp, incredulous laugh that ended in a cough. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes, staring at them with a mixture of resentment and resignation before stuffing them back. The damp had clearly ruined them. "Information? You want information? You act like this is a library, Batman. Like we’re sitting in an office exchanging case files over donuts. My captain is screaming about jurisdictional overreach, and the commissioner is buried under a mountain of paperwork because half the precinct is asking why the hell a freak in a cape is playing detective in classified zones."

He leaned against the metal railing, his knuckles white as he gripped the rusted iron. His breathing was labored, a byproduct of the stairs and a long week of sleep-deprivation. He looked fragile in this environment, a man made of meat and grit standing in the path of a predator, even if that predator was currently on his side. "I don't have logs for you. I have headaches. I have bodies found in places that shouldn't exist, and I have superiors who have locked down every bit of evidence on those sightings. It’s restricted. Top-tier. You want to know what’s happening down at the harbor? Go talk to the people who are actually being paid to keep secrets, not the ones being harassed for daring to ask them."

I shifted my weight, turning my head slightly to track his movement, though I kept the breadth of my shoulders toward the city. The tension in his shoulders was palpable, the rigidity of a man who knew he was holding back because he was afraid of what he would find if he actually looked, or perhaps, simply because he was tired of being toyed with. The mystery of the creature—the violent, runaway metamorphosis I had witnessed—was a ticking clock. If that reached the streets before I understood the mechanism of the serum, the body count in Gotham would cease to be manageable.

"The information isn't going to save the precinct, Harvey," I replied, my tone icy, clinical. I took a half-step back, my cape snapping behind me like a whip in the gale. "The people responsible for those sightings—they don't care about your jurisdiction. They don't care about your captain. If I don't get those files, the chaos will spread until the precinct is little more than a containment zone. You think you're protecting your badge, but you're just hoarding debris while the storm builds."

Harvey pushed himself off the railing. He reached into his coat and produced a thick, water-spotted accordion file. He didn't hand it to me. He held it for a moment, weighing it in his hand, his eyes darting to my silhouette. The frustration was raw now, etched into the lines around his mouth. He looked at the file, then back at me, his gaze flickering with a momentary, stubborn spark of pride.

"You want the truth?" he snapped, his voice rising, harsh and jagged. "Everyone wants the truth, but nobody wants to be the one to pay the price for it. You show up here, you demand, you vanish. You never see the paperwork. You never see the families I have to call."

With a sharp, violent motion, he tossed the file. It flew through the air, the heavy paper thudding against the rain-slicked concrete floor between us. It landed with a wet, heavy slap, water instantly pooling around the edges of the manila folder. He stood there, chest heaving, his eyes locking with the dark abyss of my cowl.

"Go on then, take it. It’s what you were going to do anyway, isn't it? Even if I told you no, you’d just tear the desk apart to get to it in the morning. Explain it to me, then. Explain why a bunch of government suit-and-ties are playing God down at the harbor, and why the hell I’m suddenly the one caught in the middle of it. Tell me why this isn't just another one of your grand, impossible tragedies shifting shape."

I looked down at the file, the edges darkening as they soaked up the rain. I didn't reach for it yet. The distance between us was charged with the static of the storm and the weight of his mounting panic. He was waiting for guidance or perhaps for me to offer some form of absolution for the chaos unfolding, but I had none to give. The mission was absolute, and the burden of that mission left no room for the hollow comforts of empathy. My attention was already shifting beyond him, back to the dark, churning skyline.

"The sightings are just the beginning, Harvey," I said, the words cold and final. I didn't acknowledge his demand for an explanation, because the explanation itself was a dangerous infection. I didn't need him to understand; I only needed the data.

I didn't pick up the file immediately, letting those words linger in the freezing air between us. He was frustrated, isolated in his own exhaustion, left standing on a rooftop in a storm he couldn't control. I checked the atmospheric density, the wind speed, the distance to the adjacent building—a sharp, analytical checklist that rendered his human suffering secondary to the geometry of the leap.

Without another word, I flexed my knees, the heavy plates of the suit adjusting to the movement. With a swift, powerful shove against the concrete, I threw myself out into the void. The wind caught my cape, ballooning it into a dark, leathery wing that snapped as I plummeted. Gravity took hold instantly, a familiar, rushing vertigo as I dove into the darkness. I didn't look back at the roof. Harvey Bullock remained there, a solitary, pathetic figure shrinking into the distance as I vanished into the shadows of the city blocks, leaving him alone with his frustration and the dark, rain-drenched secrets I had come to claim.

Hours had passed since the laboratory incident, and the city below had descended into a relentless, cold downpour that did little to wash away the grime of Gotham. The sterile, fluorescent tension of the secret facility felt like a lifetime ago, replaced now by the rhythmic, unforgiving drumming of rain against the concrete of the GCPD rooftop. I stood on the very precipice, the soles of my boots gripping the edge of the parapet as the wind lashed at my cape. The cityscape was a blurred smear of neon amber and bruised violet, shimmering through the vertical sheets of water. Below, the police cruisers looked like toys, their light bars cycling in silent, rhythmic pulses. My cowl offered little protection against the biting chill, and the damp air seemed to seep through the tactical weave of the suit, reminding me that I was made of flesh, even if the city demanded I be made of something else.

I heard the metallic groaning of the heavy rooftop door before I saw him. The hinges shrieked, a sharp discordance against the low, heavy hum of the metropolis. Harvey Bullock stepped out, his trench coat already sodden and clinging to his frame like a wet shroud. He looked tired. It was a marrow-deep exhaustion, the kind that came from years of witnessing the slow rot of a system he was trying to patch with duct tape. He adjusted the brim of his hat, squinting against the rain, and stopped a safe, cynical distance behind me. The scent of his cheap, burnt coffee merged with the ozone of the storm.

"You know, I thought the weather might keep even the local boogeyman inside for a night," Harvey said, his voice gravelly and thick with annoyance. He shuffled forward, his heavy footsteps audible even over the rain. He didn't look at me directly; he stared out at the jagged skyline as if waiting for it to crumble. "Instead, here you are, brooding on the edge like some kind of gargoyle that lost its way."

I didn't turn. I watched a distant fire escape glint with refracted electricity. The city felt wrong tonight. The frequency of the sightings, the erratic nature of the reports—they pointed to something escalating, something that didn't fit the typical profile of a street-level thug or a Gotham syndicate. I needed information, and Bullock was currently the only conduit to the data I required.

"I am not here to entertain your commentary on my habits, Harvey," I said, my voice modulated, low, and stripped of inflection. The sound was flat, swallowed by the downpour. "The reports from the dockside warehouses. The unauthorized entry at the government facility earlier today. I need the specific coordinates and the incident logs."

Harvey let out a sharp, incredulous laugh that ended in a cough. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes, staring at them with a mixture of resentment and resignation before stuffing them back. The damp had clearly ruined them. "Information? You want information? You act like this is a library, Batman. Like we’re sitting in an office exchanging case files over donuts. My captain is screaming about jurisdictional overreach, and the commissioner is buried under a mountain of paperwork because half the precinct is asking why the hell a freak in a cape is playing detective in classified zones."

He leaned against the metal railing, his knuckles white as he gripped the rusted iron. His breathing was labored, a byproduct of the stairs and a long week of sleep-deprivation. He looked fragile in this environment, a man made of meat and grit standing in the path of a predator, even if that predator was currently on his side. "I don't have logs for you. I have headaches. I have bodies found in places that shouldn't exist, and I have superiors who have locked down every bit of evidence on those sightings. It’s restricted. Top-tier. You want to know what’s happening down at the harbor? Go talk to the people who are actually being paid to keep secrets, not the ones being harassed for daring to ask them."

I shifted my weight, turning my head slightly to track his movement, though I kept the breadth of my shoulders toward the city. The tension in his shoulders was palpable, the rigidity of a man who knew he was holding back because he was afraid of what he would find if he actually looked, or perhaps, simply because he was tired of being toyed with. The mystery of the creature—the violent, runaway metamorphosis I had witnessed—was a ticking clock. If that reached the streets before I understood the mechanism of the serum, the body count in Gotham would cease to be manageable.

"The information isn't going to save the precinct, Harvey," I replied, my tone icy, clinical. I took a half-step back, my cape snapping behind me like a whip in the gale. "The people responsible for those sightings—they don't care about your jurisdiction. They don't care about your captain. If I don't get those files, the chaos will spread until the precinct is little more than a containment zone. You think you're protecting your badge, but you're just hoarding debris while the storm builds."

Harvey pushed himself off the railing. He reached into his coat and produced a thick, water-spotted accordion file. He didn't hand it to me. He held it for a moment, weighing it in his hand, his eyes darting to my silhouette. The frustration was raw now, etched into the lines around his mouth. He looked at the file, then back at me, his gaze flickering with a momentary, stubborn spark of pride.

"You want the truth?" he snapped, his voice rising, harsh and jagged. "Everyone wants the truth, but nobody wants to be the one to pay the price for it. You show up here, you demand, you vanish. You never see the paperwork. You never see the families I have to call."

With a sharp, violent motion, he tossed the file. It flew through the air, the heavy paper thudding against the rain-slicked concrete floor between us. It landed with a wet, heavy slap, water instantly pooling around the edges of the manila folder. He stood there, chest heaving, his eyes locking with the dark abyss of my cowl.

"Go on then, take it. It’s what you were going to do anyway, isn't it? Even if I told you no, you’d just tear the desk apart to get to it in the morning. Explain it to me, then. Explain why a bunch of government suit-and-ties are playing God down at the harbor, and why the hell I’m suddenly the one caught in the middle of it. Tell me why this isn't just another one of your grand, impossible tragedies shifting shape."

I looked down at the file, the edges darkening as they soaked up the rain. I didn't reach for it yet. The distance between us was charged with the static of the storm and the weight of his mounting panic. He was waiting for guidance or perhaps for me to offer some form of absolution for the chaos unfolding, but I had none to give. The mission was absolute, and the burden of that mission left no room for the hollow comforts of empathy. My attention was already shifting beyond him, back to the dark, churning skyline.

"The sightings are just the beginning, Harvey," I said, the words cold and final. I didn't acknowledge his demand for an explanation, because the explanation itself was a dangerous infection. I didn't need him to understand; I only needed the data.

I didn't pick up the file immediately, letting those words linger in the freezing air between us. He was frustrated, isolated in his own exhaustion, left standing on a rooftop in a storm he couldn't control. I checked the atmospheric density, the wind speed, the distance to the adjacent building—a sharp, analytical checklist that rendered his human suffering secondary to the geometry of the leap.

Without another word, I flexed my knees, the heavy plates of the suit adjusting to the movement. With a swift, powerful shove against the concrete, I threw myself out into the void. The wind caught my cape, ballooning it into a dark, leathery wing that snapped as I plummeted. Gravity took hold instantly, a familiar, rushing vertigo as I dove into the darkness. I didn't look back at the roof. Harvey Bullock remained there, a solitary, pathetic figure shrinking into the distance as I vanished into the shadows of the city blocks, leaving him alone with his frustration and the dark, rain-drenched secrets I had come to claim. «The Beast of Arkham», part 3. Fanfiction — DC Universe.

Batman's Investigation. The Beast of Arkham — DC Universe fanfiction | Fanfica

Batman's Investigation

Gotham Nights

Amanda Waller has a new weapon: a chemically unstable Man-Bat, torn between man and monster. But when the serum shatters his mind, the creature breaks loose into Gotham. Batman must track the rampaging beast before it kills innocent lives. Meanwhile, Jeremiah Arkham watches from the shadows, convinced the chaos heralds an epidemic of madness. As the line between hunter and prey blurs, one question remains: who is the real monster?

The Beast of Arkham — Batman's Investigation

Part 3: Batman's Investigation